


Weltschmerz

by scrapbullet



Series: Entelechy [3]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Mpreg, Sheer bloody crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-04
Updated: 2011-11-04
Packaged: 2017-10-25 17:01:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/272657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/pseuds/scrapbullet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Dad looks tired. He always does, these days. There are heavy bags under his eyes as he keeps vigil over father – who looks so deathly still, so pale Scott wants to cry anew – hands clasped tight together in a show of solidarity.</i> Scott glimpses hatred.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Weltschmerz

**Author's Note:**

> Exists in the same 'verse as _Little Dreams_ and _Bedroom Hymns_. Warning for brief mention of homophobia and implied violence.

“Your father is very proud of you.”

Scott wilts. His eyes are red and bloodshot from crying, and as he angrily rubs them with the back of his hand a few traitorous tears escape to slide down his cheek, hot and wet; shameful.

“But if I hadn’t-”

Hank sighs. His paw, big and blue, rests on Scott’s shoulder; a comforting weight, but Scott hates it, hates the distance of it, and so he throws himself into his uncle’s arms and buries his face in the soft, dense fur. Breathing in he tries to hold it all inside, the overwhelming fear and terror, the anguish, and he hovers on that line of desperation, unable to express himself.

Hank tightens his arms around him, rumbling deep in his chest. “Your dad wants to see you.”

Scott grimaces. When he pulls away he sniffs, rubs his nose, and without Hanks assistance, pushes into the bedroom.

Dad looks tired. He always does, these days. There are heavy bags under his eyes as he keeps vigil over father – who looks so deathly still, so pale Scott wants to cry anew – hands clasped tight together in a show of solidarity. Scott clears his throat. Dad looks up, giving him a watery smile.

“Ah, Hank sent you in-”

Meaningless chatter, Scott decides. Dad does that when he’s anxious.

“-your father is going to be alright. Just a hair line fracture and a few scrapes and bruises,” his smile turns wan, and Scott averts his eyes, “nothing that will keep him out of commission for too long. You know him; he won’t be able to keep still.”

 _If he wakes up_.

Dad sputters. He heard it, of course, Scott’s broadcasting much too loud for him not to and he wants to cry again, eyes welling up, because it’s his _goddamn fault_ -

“Language, Scott.”

Scott flushes. If his dad thinks _that’s_ bad, just wait until he hears how Elizabet called him a _schwuler_ -

Dad shakes his head. He inhales, slow and deep, no doubt keeping himself in check. “None of that matters right now. Come here.”

Scott doesn’t move an inch.

“It wasn’t your fault, sweetheart. They would have found out one way or another.”

That’s all he needs. He’s seven, and he thinks his new glasses are kinda cool; ruby quartz, lenses a slick red, designed to keep the plasma blasts at bay, and yet, they’re useless when he loses control. When the kids in town jeer and the adults shake their heads and gossip, sotto voce, _poor child, raised by homosexuals, how disgraceful!_ , and all it takes is one, just one idiot to laugh and poke and knock his glasses off, and he can feel the pressure build up so quickly that it bursts from within and sets the roof of the community centre aflame.

Then father had come, and there was screaming, and gunshots, and-

“Hush, hush,” strong arms are a grounding weight around his shoulders, reigning him in, and he’s crying again. No, he’s sobbing, and the force of it has his shoulders heaving so much he can barely breathe, juddering, an outpouring of emotion so encompassing that all Scott can do is hold on. “Let it out.”


End file.
